


to the victor go the spoils

by hoppnhorn



Series: rivals (make the best lovers) [5]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Frottage, M/M, basically billy finally gets something filthy out of steve after a whole lot of blue balling it, motogp au, victory frotting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 03:40:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15788199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoppnhorn/pseuds/hoppnhorn
Summary: Billy finally beats Harrington for first place and gets a grand prize.





	to the victor go the spoils

**Author's Note:**

> love to my motogp bestie [@usstrashbarge](https://usstrashbarge.tumblr.com). thanks for feeding my crazy.

First _fucking_ place, baby. 

There’s a reason he’s in the premiere class of the goddamn sport. And Billy _proves_ it. There’s a reason he endured years of endless practice, scrapes and burns and bruises. 

He’s a natural. 

Despite his nature, which is rough and rowdy, on the back of a bike, he’s seamless. Smooth as silk and arrow precise. And there are moments, there are _races_ , where he shows up and stuns the whole goddamn world. 

_Reminds_ them who he is, and why he’s fucking _there_. 

By sneaking up behind the world champion and robbing him blind. Sliding passed him like it’s the easiest thing, even though it really _isn’t_. 

Harrington had given him a run for his money. The guy is _pushy_. Really, they’re all slightly unhinged and majorly competitive and it’s a wonder more riders aren’t slamming into each other like they’re tucked safely into car cabins. 

Like pussies.

But, like, Harrington _really_ doesn’t like losing. He’s crashed trying to _win_ when he could have coasted in with second place and kept a comfy lead on the championship. Harrington is a _nutcase_. 

And he _really_ doesn’t like losing to Billy. 

But even the Golden Boy couldn’t keep him at bay. Not in that race. Not in that moment, when they were neck-and-neck down the last straight and Billy opened up the throttle. Let the engine between his legs _fly_ and left Harrington in the dust. 

Much to the glee of his fans. 

And his cranky fucking _crew chief_. 

Who he, frankly, can’t wait to _leave_ the second he can. Like, the sooner he can start test driving with Honda the goddamn _better_. He’s about _done_ pulling miracles out of his ass so that he doesn’t leave on a low note.

He wants to make a point of kicking ass, even when his loyalties are about to shift. To change sides entirely actually. He wants to start a trend, and land on both feet next season for Honda.

Living in Harrington’s shadow is not gonna happen. 

Not to _him_. 

He’s a champion too. Three times. It’s not six but it’s also not fucking _zero_. 

The Maniac is back. And playing for keeps.

 

 

Podium ceremonies are usually the highlight of a victory. A prime occasion for everyone with ears and eyes to kiss the winner’s ass as he stands on the top tier of the platform. It’s a better high than the smoothest coke on the market, Billy’s sure. 

Billy _knows_. 

Standing tall as your national anthem is being played, watching a bunch of foreigners take off their hats out of respect for your homeland, is delicious. It’s the closest Billy figures he’ll ever be to a god. 

To _being_ God. 

Anyway, it used to be his favorite part. Some of the original flare had faded from repeated victory. From standing on the podium week after week, in third, second or first. A winner or a loser, it didn’t matter. 

The trophies blurred. 

Billy’s favorite part, _now_ , is when they’re being shuffled upstairs to the podium. The small window between parc ferme and the televised podium dog and pony show. The five minutes they’re given to look in a mirror and see if _maybe_ they don’t look like hot garbage before standing in front of thousands. 

Millions if you count all the dorks watching from home, clapping like goons from the comfort of their couches. 

Billy loves that time. 

He used to love it because he could pull on Harrington’s pigtails. Cut him down a few pegs before they walked out into the spotlight. 

Now? 

Now he recognizes that time for what it is: an opportunity.

Because the moment he has Steve alone, the _second_ , he’s yanking him inside an empty changing room in the paddock and sucking a mark into Steve’s collarbone. 

They’re both higher than tweakers on a fresh line with the adrenaline pumping through their veins. Riding a motorcycle over 200 mph is tantamount to being suicidal.

And they do it. Every fucking week. 

To please the crowds, like gladiators of old. 

Billy groans, spearing his tongue into Steve’s mouth as he finds his lips. Claims them as his prize. And the thirsty fucker undulates under his touch, his leathers unzipped down to his waist. 

He’d pulled that shit during _interviews_ , like he knew that Billy would be as hard as granite watching him sweat, guzzle his Red Bull and smile like a goon for his adoring fans. All while his nipples stand erect under his black Under Armor like they’re _calling_ to Billy’s lips. His tongue. 

_Suck me_ , they cry.

And so he does. He barely has to get Steve pressed up against some kind of vanity, which sends shit _everywhere_ but he couldn’t care any less, and he’s mouthing at the hard little peaks through the thin fabric, sucking and biting to make Steve _whine._

“Billy, fuck, oh _god_.” He’s delightfully red and sprawled back with his legs lewdly spread, like a buffet that Billy can, and _will_ , descend upon to feast until sated. 

Even if the whole fucking world has to wait for their podium ceremony to start, he’s going to taste Steve’s come. At least _once_. 

“God I want you.” He grunts into Steve’s left nipple, lifts his head to catch his mouth in a kiss. It’s rough, his kiss, demanding and _urgent_ , but Steve goes pliant under his command. He whimpers against his lips, opens his mouth so Billy can fuck his tongue inside, lick and suck and dominate. 

Steve tastes sugar sweet, the tang of energy drink still clinging to his tongue. And Billy groans, captures his jaw in both hands. 

“More.” Steve whispers, his fingers tangling in the zipper of Billy’s leathers until they’re both scrambling to get them down, get him nearly naked with the uniform pushed down to his thighs. 

Steve’s hands on his skin are like _lightning_ and Billy stumbles when Steve caresses his abs, rakes his nails over the muscle until he reaches and grips the base of his cock. 

It’s a _sight_ , watching Steve Harrington jerk him off while the guy lays back, hair everywhere from Billy’s _fingers_. Mouth open. Like he can’t catch his breath in the haze of their lust. 

Steve tugs on him with purpose, with need, and Billy fucking _leaks_.

“Let me see you.” He hisses, going after Steve’s open leathers like they had his own, tugging them down until his Nike briefs are visible. Until he can see the _wet spot_ in the grey fabric and he can press a hand over it. Billy relishes the shudder that rips through Steve’s body, the choked _cry_ that pops from his kiss-red lips as he rocks his hips. Meets Billy’s hand in little, needy thrusts. 

“Shit, _baby_.” Steve moans, drops his head back and -- this time -- it’s Billy’s turn to _shiver_. He can’t _believe_ how good the term of endearment feels, how sweet the word _sounds_ , on Steve’s lips. _Baby_. He leans in to lick a stripe up Steve’s throat, suck on his adam’s apple before he strips away the briefs over his cock. 

And damn if Harrington isn’t _glistening_. Billy’s mouth waters with the memory of his salty taste, the heavy weight on his tongue. He groans, ducks down to lave his tongue over the precome bubbling at Steve’s head

Makes him _gasp_.

“Wait.” Then suddenly Steve’s hands are on his face, guiding him back, kissing him drunkenly, like he’s wound so tight he’s loose all over again. “I want you with me.” 

And, like, Billy wants to ask what the fuck that means, but then he sees Steve’s gaze drift down. Watches as the Golden Boy spreads his legs and pulls Billy closer, lifts his hips --

“Oh _shit_.” Billy can’t help but _whine like a bitch_ when Steve slides their cocks together, hot and slick and fucking _incredible_. “Yeah, _yeah_ okay.” He nods, like he understands. Like he’s finally caught up as he braces himself against the vanity, hikes Steve’s thighs high on his hips to get the angle right and then _rocks_. 

And, if he’s honest, he could come right then. His breath tears through him, makes him feel light headed as he tries to _concentrate_ on the sight before his eyes. 

Steve arching, moaning _his_ name while his cock drools onto the black fabric of that dumb, tight shirt. 

Billy hikes the thing up past his nipples and thumbs at Steve head with one hand, making a mess on his finger while his other hand tweaks Steve’s right nipple, turns it rosey. All the while, he thrusts. Slow and filthy and so close to _fucking_ he can’t help but _want it_. Want to yank at Steve’s briefs until he can a glimpse of his ass. 

But he’s not looking to _burst that bubble_ and the slide of their cocks is, really, fucking _awesome_. He rubs his thumb back and forth over the slit of Steve’s head in time with brushes over his nipple, and observes the response. Steve moves desperately, running his hands up and down Billy’s arms, touching his face like he’s in _awe_. 

“See what you’ve been missing out on?” Billy teases, because it’s the only thing he can say without spilling his guts right then and there. Telling Steve he’s _beautiful_ and that he can’t wait to have him properly, in a bed. _Inside_ him. 

“Jesus, don’t choose now to gloat.” Steve says breathlessly. “I need to come, please.” 

“Don’t worry, pretty boy.” He runs a hand down Steve’s chest, pushes him back until he’s nearly flat. Nearly, but not entirely. 

Suddenly Billy can see them fucking like this. Steve on his back, spread out on Billy’s kitchen table. 

Or counter. 

He sees them in his _house_ and his heart _squeezes_ in his chest. Tight. Because, _shit_ , he’s got it bad.

_So_ bad.

“I’ll take care of you.” He finishes, leaning over to join them again, chest to chest, and thrust his fat shaft against Steve’s throbbing dick. And then, for all intents and purposes, Billy _fucks_ him. 

He frots against Steve Harrington like he’s always _dreamed_ of fucking Steve Harrington. Hard and _fast_. 

Steve’s hands fly to his bare ass to hold on and Billy snarls when he feels the sharp sting of _nails_ sinking into his skin. 

It only eggs him on. Makes him _rougher_ , more forceful. But neither of them are complaining, can’t _really_ because they’re too busy whimpering into each other’s mouths. Grabbing onto anything they can. 

Steve curses, and something in Billy loves the fact that he’s reduced the Golden Boy to a curse-riddled vixen. Billy rolls his spine, drives the heat in his balls up to the top cock until it’s teetering on _torture_ , not being _inside_ Steve while he ruts. 

“God I want you like this.” He confesses in the heat of the moment, his mouth panting hot against Steve’s neck. “Would you let me? Would you let me fuck you?” 

And, he might actually stroke out when Steve arches hard, comes on himself in heavy, creamy spurts and groans a delicious, “ _Yes._ ” 

Billy is helpless after that. His orgasm tackles him like a rugby player, clobbers him without warning as he paints Steve’s stomach and chest with his release. His voice sounds paper thin, like gossamer, as he cries out with each exhale. Strokes his cock until his toes _curl_. 

And then collapses into the mess he made. 

Billy rests his face into the crook of Steve’s throat. Breathes in his sweat, the scent of their sex, expensive deodorant and some kind of preppy cologne. 

A kiss on his ear rouses him, like he’s waking from sleep, though it’s only been moments. When he turns his head, gets a look at Steve’s face, something in his stomach cracks wide. Burns hot and steady in his chest. 

Steve is smiling at him. Running his fingers through his sweaty hair. Looking at him like, well. 

“That was nice.” The guy whispers, his face freaking _radiant._ “I’d like to do that again.” 

And like, it’s so _fucking_ cute. How he’s whispering like they’d shared a first kiss and he’d like another. Not a filthy grind in a room somewhere, _someplace_ they shouldn’t be. 

“Yeah?” He grins despite himself, wiggling closer so he can plant a little peck on Steve’s mouth. But the guy chases his lips, seeks out another. 

Then another. 

It occurs to Billy, as he’s lying in his own jizz on Steve Harrington’s chest, that this is his victory kiss. The little, careful brushes of Steve’s lips against his to claim. Greater than any dumb trophy or points. 

He’s _won_. 

**Author's Note:**

> find me at [@hoppnhorn](https://hoppnhorn.tumblr.com)


End file.
